


Survival Strategies for the Domesticated British Butthole

by Atiki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blatant Disrespect For Groceries, Crack, Hair removal, Help, M/M, Really Just Filthy Crack, Rimming, depilation, don't try at home ok kids?, good god what have i done, ice lollies, stay safe, they fuck on the kitchen floor, why are y'all like this, why does this have over 1000 kudos, written while drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2729624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiki/pseuds/Atiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there’s a rimming disaster, Sherlock depilates his butt, everything goes very, very wrong and groceries are mistreated. This fic contains hair removal creme in a butthole, ice lollies in a butthole and John Watson's penis in a butthole. You have been warned.<br/>(Complete crack, written for a prompt on the Kink Meme, based on online reviews for a hair removal creme. Link inside.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survival Strategies for the Domesticated British Butthole

_Kink Meme Prompt: Read the reviews. Then write a fanfic.[[Link]](http://www.amazon.com/Veet-Hair-Removal-Creme-200ml/dp/B000KKNQBK/)_

_You don't actually have to read the reviews (although it's really worth your time). All you have to know is that **this hair removal creme apparently BURNS. LIKE. HELL.**_

* * *

 

**Survival Strategies for the Domesticated British Butthole**

 

When they finally entered what John liked to call an “adult relationship”, it didn’t change that much.

They still went on cases together, chased criminals, stole each other’s take-away and traumatized the Yard (in more ways than before, admittedly). Sherlock still threw decaying bodyparts through the room when he got angry. John still yelled like a lunatic about someone called Greg whenever Sherlock refused to do the paperwork after cases.

Sherlock forgot John existed on a regular basis, which was bound to become a bit inconvenient, given that they shared a bed now. (“Sherlock, could you at least _try_ not to fart in my direction? Bloody hell, what is your hand doing in your…”) They bickered about the electricity bill and the Bunsen burner under the bed and the appropriateness of toads in the bathtub, and John called Sherlock an arrogant dickhead and Sherlock called John an idiot and sulked like a spoiled toddler whenever he saw an opportunity to do so.

It was amazing.

When they were done fighting they usually shagged like bunnies, which really was the only new aspect that had been added to their relationship when Sherlock and John had become… whatever it was they were now: The Sex. Capitals intended.

The Sex happened regularly, and Sherlock was quite fond of it.

Two months had passed since that fateful night. The night they had upgraded their relationship to its new status. They’d returned from an exhausting stake-out that had ended with a serial killer being arrested, the entire Yard groaning in relief, an initially rather grumpy John, and Sherlock practically jumping around in excitement. After a cab ride during which John had the nerve to look infuriatingly handsome and a hurried arrival at 221B, Sherlock’s memory had become slightly… fragmentary.

He did remember that it had started with a gentle kiss, barely a brush of lips, and a tentative “A…alright?”

He also remembered that it had ended with him on his back on the kitchen table, his naked legs wrapped around John’s waist and John gasping and grunting on top of him, which could only be described as beneficial for both parties.

That was, until John’s adrenaline-addled brain had given him that awful lucid moment and he started pondering about what was going on. “What are we doing?” he had gasped out, stopping his enthusiastic thrusting into, well, Sherlock, who hadn’t been very approving of this turn of events. “We are fucking,” Sherlock had reminded him, urging him to continue by digging his heels into the small of his back. John had looked at him like he was experiencing a major enlightenment, pupils blown wide, mouth open, slightly drooling, and then he had resumed his fucking.

And that, then, had settled that. They’d never really talked about it again. It was more of an unspoken agreement. _So we’re fucking now. Alright, then.  
_ Over the course of the next few weeks, the arrangement had constantly been expanded, until it included quite a bit of romance and endearments, and perhaps also tragic love confessions and one or two outbursts of _I would never be able to live without you and I loved you from the moment I first saw you_.

Anyway, back to the sex. It had been rather pleasurable, their first time, at least as far as Sherlock could recall, but not nearly as pleasurable as the thing John had done with his mouth approximately three hours later.

 

So, this was the past, now was the present, and the present wasn’t bad either.

 

Sherlock loved to experiment. Sex was no exception. Fortunately, John was a considerate lover and usually quite happy to try out new things. He wasn’t that keen on filling in spreadsheets during intercourse and he refused to catalogue the varying amount of his ejaculate depending on daily fluid intake, which was a bit unfortunate, but Sherlock could live with it. John made up for it by using… mostly his tongue. Expertly.

Speaking of John Watson’s tongue, a certain part of Sherlock’s body had turned out to be very sensitive to being stimulated with said organ. To be specific, it was Sherlock’s external anal sphincter that was unusually responsive to oral stimulation. John had developed a specific technique to effectively loosen the tight ring of muscle and Sherlock approved of this technique. Very much so.

John managed to render Sherlock incapable of forming coherent words, just like that, just by moving his tongue in teasing circles over his little pink opening before dipping it in, stretching Sherlock’s hole cautiously from the inside. John had a habit of making those delicious sounds all the time, his breath ghosting over the most intimate parts of Sherlock’s body as he licked and sucked and prodded enthusiastically. This specific combination of sensory input never failed to reduce Sherlock to a whimpering, trembling, sweaty mess, which by all accounts should have been embarrassing. Except it wasn’t. It all usually amounted to Sherlock begging John to come inside him, which John was eager to accomplish.

In other words: Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, really liked getting his butthole rimmed before being fucked into oblivion. (John had suggested putting this sentence on Sherlock’s new business cards. This suggestion had been dismissed.)

 

However, Sherlock’s fondness for rimming was crucial to one life-altering occurrence that would furthermore be referred to as Naked Butthole Friday Disaster.

Naked Butthole Friday Disaster happened, as the name might suggest, on Naked Butthole Friday.

The day before Naked Butthole Friday (most probably a Thursday) was cruel in its ordinariness, dull and predictable and hateful, all in all pretty much like every day. That was, until John returned from the surgery and had that peculiar glow around him that suggested he was not too tired, only slightly annoyed and horny as hell. Epic, tongue-curling late afternoon sex was the next order of business.

John slumped onto the sofa and Sherlock slumped onto John, pressing his hips down against John's and crushing their mouths together, effectively muffling any kind of protest John might otherwise have come up with.

 

Five minutes later they were hard at it, John still fully clothed, Sherlock completely, unashamedly naked, his arse hovering above John’s face (which was exactly the right place for it to be), his right leg dangling precariously over the edge of the sofa. John’s tongue was exactly where it was supposed to be, too, namely in Sherlock’s arse, making those intoxicatingly brilliant undulating movements while John’s nose was rubbing over Sherlock’s perineum, dangerously close to his balls.

Sherlock was rock hard, his untouched cock flushed and leaking, little drops of pre-come landing in his riot of dark pubic hair. Sherlock turned briefly to have a look at John’s crotch, and judging by the outline that was visible through his trousers, John was indeed in a similar state. That was agreeable.

“Good, huh?” John asked, pulling away for a bit to look up at Sherlock, smirking, before diving right back in, his tongue tracing the outline of Sherlock’s slackened entrance before finding its way back inside. _Oh_.

“Uh,” Sherlock commented eloquently, a fit of tremors shaking his body, “ungh, hah.”

“Yes, that’s it. Gorgeous,” John mumbled, his voice effectively muffled by, well, Sherlock’s butt, which was way more arousing than it had any right to be. John spread Sherlock’s butt cheeks with one hand to get better access and undid his own flies with the other. His hand finally found his own cock and, with a breathless groan, he began to pump furiously.

Then he properly redirected his attention to Sherlock’s arse, and, God almighty, he gave it everything.

Sherlock gripped the back of the sofa and held on for dear life. John lifted his own arse a bit and wiggled out of his trousers. Sherlock threw his head back and moaned absolutely shamelessly, because John’s tongue was doing _everything_ , everything it was brilliant at, and Sherlock’s cock was rapidly bobbing up and down as he tried to fuck himself harder on John’s tongue, his hips moving back and forth in an attempt to pull it deeper inside, and _oh God_ , and… and… and then…-

And then John coughed. Violently.

He _coughed_. During sex. _What was he thinking?_                                                                        

And, unbelievably, John didn’t seem to plan on stopping, which had an instantaneous negative effect on Sherlock’s mood. Sherlock didn’t approve of John coughing into his arse instead of rimming him, and he told him so.

“Stop this, John”, he said imperiously.

John coughed even more in response to this and gasped for air. Sherlock was extremely displeased. “Stop coughing,” he told him again. “It tickles, and I-“

A second later, John’s tongue was gone, which was even worse because it made Sherlock feel wet and empty and… strangely cold. He grunted irritatedly but didn’t make an attempt to remove his arse from the vicinity of John’s face. One could still hope.

“Christ,” John gasped out, followed by yet another coughing fit. “I- You- goddamn hair…”

Sherlock wondered what hair had to do with the whole disaster while his cock was showing its great displeasure by deflating visibly. Sherlock glanced down at it accusingly.

“Get off,” John grunted, poking at Sherlock’s bare arse above him. “Get… off, I... need to - Hair in my throat.”

When Sherlock didn’t move in time (he wasn’t really to blame, with his brain slowly moving upwards from between his legs and everything), John bodily shoved him off the sofa. Before Sherlock could protest, he found himself kneeling on the floor, watching John’s coughing form rapidly shuffle through the sitting room and vanish in the bathroom, where he proceeded to produce rather unsettling retching and choking noises. Sherlock frowned.

Needless to say that the evening was ruined.

John returned from the bathroom twenty minutes later, his dishevelled clothing rearranged and a sheepish look on his face. Sherlock lay stretched out on his back on the couch by now, sulking with abandon. John scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Guess the mood is ruined,” he said finally, chuckling weakly. “I’m tired, off to bed. Coming?”

Sherlock shook his head and grunted.

“Alright,” said John and bent down to kiss Sherlock who determinedly didn’t kiss back. (Epic sulking always included ignoring physical affection. It was a tradition.) “Good night,” John sighed, and vanished again.

 

Sherlock frowned at the ceiling, replaying John’s mid-rimming coughing fit, in all its glory, in his head. He proceeded to spend the rest of the night pacing in the sitting room, alternatively throwing books around or aggressively playing the violin, pondering over the problem. Missing another opportunity for a mind-blowing post-rimming orgasm was not an option.

Fact number one was that there was hair around Sherlock’s butthole that had made John cough. Fact number two was that Sherlock was absolutely determined not to let anything like that happen again. There was only one logical conclusion: Sherlock had to depilate his arse. And because Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do things by half-measure, it was going to be as hairless as humanly possible.

It wasn’t that Sherlock had a lot of hair between his buttocks. He knew that. He had seen it. (Yes, Sherlock knew a way to get a look at his own butthole. This way involved nudity, two mirrors, a rubber pipe, a kitchen chair and a lot of shouting by Mrs Hudson who was just popping in to check the boiler. It was an experiment.) In any case, there was this thin fluff of dark hair surrounding Sherlock’s butthole which he had never given much thought, and which had signed its own death warrant by making John cough during sex.

By the time it was morning, Sherlock was determined to find the most efficient way to eradicate the enemy. So to speak.

 

After John had emerged from the bedroom at half past seven, kissed Sherlock good morning (John did that), forced half a piece of toast on him (John did that, too) and left for the surgery, Sherlock grabbed John’s laptop and started his investigation.

Three sex advise websites and an interesting interview with a “daily grooming expert” (whatever that was) on _cosmopolitan.uk_ later, Sherlock had decided that shaving was definitely not an option ( _rupture of mucosal tissue, anal fissures, skin irritation_ ). Waxing was impossible as well. (Sherlock did have a high acceptance limit when it came to pain, but he was not suicidal.) The only real possibility left was chemical depilation. A hair removal creme it was.

Sherlock made short work of choosing a brand. He googled for a bit and then decided to purchase the creme that had the highest number of positive reviews on Amazon (which, in retrospect, probably should have alarmed rather than encouraged him, but anyway). He briefly contemplated ordering the cream online, but that would have taken way too long (given that Sherlock was planning on having great hairless sex this very evening).

 

To cut a long story short, three hours later (two of which had been spent sulking enthusiastically about being forced to leave the flat), Sherlock was in the possession of a tube of hair removal cream. Shopping had been exceptionally successful. (In other words, Sherlock had insulted three Tesco employees, traumatized an elderly couple by explaining what the interns back at the warehouse had undoubtedly done to the cucumbers, and purchased not only hair removal cream but also liver parenchyma, cinnamon and natron powder, which he was going to blow up in the bathtub. Later.)

Sherlock deposited his purchases on the kitchen table, grabbed the package of hair removal cream, eyed it suspiciously for a while, and came to the conclusion that it was about time to get down to business.

He wandered into the bathroom, shed his clothes until he was completely nude (he really didn’t want to leave stains on any article of clothing) and unpacked the creme. Sherlock skipped reading the package insert, obviously. He was clearly not in need of instructions on anything as plebeian as depilating his own body. Also, this needed to be done before John returned, in order to ensure trouble-free evening-rimming. This was going to be easy.

Sherlock squeezed copious amounts of cream on his hand and reached back to apply it to the area it was supposed to depilate. He made sure to coat his butthole exceptionally generously, aware that some cream went inside, and it felt… pretty much alright. Cool and wet and unspectacular. Sherlock was about to reach for the package to find out how long he would be forced to stand naked in front of the sink until the cream between his arse cheeks had finished its work, when it started.

 

It was a tingling at first, then an uncomfortable prickle, then a slight burning sensation that seemed to abate after around twenty seconds.

Little did Sherlock know that this was, metaphorically speaking, the calm before the storm.

Because at 2:59 pm and 33 seconds, on Naked Butthole Friday, in the bathroom of 221 B, _all hell broke lose._

The pain shooting up Sherlock’s arse was comparable to having shoved a glowing poker up his large intestine. (That was, at least, Sherlock’s first association, which didn’t exactly improve the situation in general.)

Sherlock let out a high-pitched whine, pressed both hands firmly to his arse and promptly reevaluated his non-believe in supernatural powers (which seemed to be the appropriate thing to do with what clearly had to be Satan himself attacking his anus from behind). It _burned_. It hurt so incredibly much that the corners of Sherlock’s eyes were prickling with tears and he felt like he was being split in two. Oh God, he was going to _cry_. Oh God.

The first coherent thought he could muster was that had to get this damned cream off. Immediately. Cold water. He needed cold water.

His hands still between his arse cheeks, Sherlock practically jumped into the shower, nearly losing his balance, whimpering slightly as the water started to run down his back. Sherlock bent forward and scrubbed at his arse, furiously, biting back groans of pain as the cream apparently tried to burn through his flesh while he did his best to wash it all off. The cream was gone in no time, but it still hurt. It hurt _indescribably_ , and the water was not enough. For God’s sakes, it was not cold enough, it didn’t cool him _from the inside_ and it _burned so much_. Sherlock was on the verge of having a panic attack.

His mind palace, as it turned out, was useless in this situation. It supplied him with entire essays about the effect of potassium thioglycole on hair follicles and mucosal tissue, but didn’t provide any information on how to _ease the fucking pain_. Sherlock noted that having a perfect, memory-based, analytical mind was of absolutely no use when your arsehole was being attacked by a chemical depilatory. He memorized this for future reference and consulted a more basic part of his brain.

_Cold_ , said basic part practically screamed, _something_ _cold_ , _anything, anything_ …

Well, that was a start. There had to be something in this flat that was cold enough, just… Fridge. The fridge had an icebox. Stuff in iceboxes was colder than water because it was _frozen_.

Sherlock rushed out of the bathroom, soaking wet, leaving puddles of water behind on his way, and stumbled into the kitchen. He fell onto his knees in front of the fridge, another jolt of pain shooting up his body as he did so. Suppressing the urge to bite into his own fist to stifle another groan, Sherlock opened the fridge with shaking fingers and tore the ice box open. Cold, please, _something_...

There was a lot of completely useless garbage inside. Sherlock gasped exasperately and wiggled his arse ungracefully in an attempt to temporarily ease the pain. He made a mental note to clean the icebox. Later, though. Right now, matters were… somewhat pressing.

Sherlock began to rummage around the icebox with both hands, random items landing on the kitchen floor around him. An empty ice cube tray, a bottle of -  was that his spiritus? A sock, frozen to a block (useless). Half a rat (unhygienic), dog skin samples, two bovine thyroid glands, John’s USB drive with holiday photos from 2010, and ah, there was the Coronavirus infected cell culture from last Tuesday, but what the hell was he supposed to…-

It burned so much. Sherlock was beginning to feel like his entire lower body was on fire. "Please," he heard himself whisper. "Please, anything, please." (Yes. Sherlock Holmes was in so much pain that he was actively supplicating to a refrigerator.)

A package of peas. Brilliant. Sherlock promptly grabbed it with both hands and pressed it between his legs. His testicles didn’t exactly approve of this and did their best to shrivel a bit, but it was delightfully cold on his burning perineum. Sherlock shoved the package further until it rested between his arse cheeks and bit his bottom lip as it finally cooled the most intimate part of him. The problem was that it only did so from the outside and that was still not enough.

Sherlock had been shot, knocked out with a baseball bat and thrown into a barrel of chili sauce on one memorable occasion. He'd always been under the impression that he was familiar with pain. Right now, a chemical depilatory was disabusing him. Sherlock wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to survive this disaster.

He resumed his desperate rummaging and finally decided that he needed something, something he could, well… something that would fit…- Sherlock had to get a grip on himself before he could finish that trail of thought.

He needed something that had the potential to cool his rectum. In other words: He needed to find something he could shove up his arse. Because desperate times called for desperate measures. Sherlock’s fingers were getting a little numb from the cold, but he managed to catch hold of something that resembled a tiny aubergine. He contemplated it, then decided that the shape was all wrong and tossed it away, along with a bright green, cube-shaped item he had never seen in his life. God, this icebox was a nightmare.

Then he found it. A multi-coloured cardboard box. Ice lollies, four different flavours. Ice lollies were the solution. The size was perfect. As was the shape. Thank God. _Thank God._

Sherlock ripped the box open, grabbed an ice lolly, tore the wrapper, didn't waste much time examining the damn thing and… _just did it instead.  
_ He adjusted his kneeling position, spread his legs a bit and steadied himself on one elbow. Then he reached back to the metaphorical battlefield that was his butt, and, well. 

It was surprisingly easy. About as easy it gets when the task is to shove a foreign object past your anal sphincter. The muscle gave without much protest, and Sherlock thought that, maybe, this was a matter of practice (which he’d had a lot of, recently). Then he stopped pondering, because what he experienced when the bloody ice lolly found its assigned position was _the definition of relief._ It was cold and wet and just plain wonderful, the pain ceasing rapidly and the burning becoming less with each passing second. Sherlock could hear himself gasp gratefully as he began to move the lolly in and out. That was... even better. That was... surprisingly pleasurable, to be honest.

 

When he already thought he had found the ultimate way to survive the drama, the universe chose to interfere. By proving its cruelty.

It did so by making John return from the surgery earlier than expected.

Sherlock noticed footsteps when John was already halfway upstairs (Sherlock’s brain was a little occupied), which left no time for him to… remove himself from the current situation.

_Well, shit._

Sherlock bit his lip, decided that he wasn’t going to be able to explain this anyway, and pressed on regardless.

 

What John Watson saw, when he entered the kitchen of 221B at 3:49 pm on Naked Butthole Friday, was Sherlock Holmes, stark naked, on his knees and one elbow on the floor in front of the open fridge, arse in the air, pressing a package of frozen peas to his balls, rhythmically groaning in relief as he slowly fucked himself with a vanilla-flavoured ice lolly.

It didn’t actually matter, at that point, that the ice lolly was vanilla-flavoured. Obviously. Not even Sherlock Holmes had taste buds in his rectum. For the sake of completeness, however, it has to be mentioned that the ice lolly was covered in green sugar sprinkles. Said sugar sprinkles were slowly melting and gave the area of Sherlock’s now hairless anus a nice otherworldly touch. It did resemble a surrealistic depiction of a dark green sun between two pale, slightly flushed arse cheeks. Or it just looked like a frighteningly extraterrestrial butthole. (It was, Sherlock supposed, open for interpretation.)

John didn’t seem to be processing the picture in front of him, judging by the sounds coming out of his mouth. He froze in the doorframe.

“Sher-“ he said. Then, “Wha… Sher - lock.” Then there was a pause. Sherlock craned his neck a bit to look at him without changing his position, eased the lolly deeper into his arse and produced a blissful grunt as it hit some peculiar spot inside him. (The cold wasn’t as unpleasant as one might think.)

John cleared his throat, swayed slightly back and forth, and then, very forcefully, said, “What.”

“You’re being useless, John,” Sherlock informed him, looking as smug and impatient as a naked man on his knees with an ice lolly up his arse could possibly manage. “Help me.”

John raised both eyebrows. “How?” Sherlock was impressed by how it sounded like a genuine question rather than an animalistic sound of helplessness.

“Put your penis in the fridge, obviously.”

John began to look slightly nauseated, but took a step forward, which was the right direction. “Why?” he said.

“My anus is burning, John.”

“No.”

“Yes, it is. You’re a doctor and I am in pain. Do something.”

“I mean, no, I won’t put my…” John swallowed. “What the everloving fuck did you do to your arsehole? Christ, I swear, if this is some sort of experiment, I will never touch-”

“No!” Sherlock whined. “I just… wanted… hair removal.” He had stopped moving his melting ice lolly in and out, which prompted his butthole to start prickling and burning again like it was being attacked by flesh-eating ants. “Ow,” he said and dropped the peas to the floor. His balls started to tingle unpleasantly as if by command. Could this get any worse?

Sherlock tossed his lolly away and, still on his knees, shuffled towards the fridge to retrieve another one. He fumbled with the wrapper of a blueberry flavoured lolly that seemed to be adequately sized, and made a pleased noise when his slippery fingers finally managed to tear it.

“Hair removal?” parroted John with around seven seconds of delay, clearing his throat a bit awkwardly, still not entirely in the picture.

“Yes. I wanted to prevent- … uuungh.” The blue lolly found its assigned place and Sherlock groaned at the coolness inside him. John licked his lips. Interesting, that. “I wanted to prevent further hair related accidents. I used some sort of… ahh, chemical… aaah… depilatory.”

“Oh my God,” said John helpfully. “And now your arse...”

“Exactly.” Sherlock let out another grunt as the lolly did exactly what it was supposed to. Namely cool the sore mucosal tissue several inches deep inside. The blueberry one was way more efficiently shaped.

When John didn’t say anything else, Sherlock demonstratively wiggled his arse towards John to emphasize the gravity of the situation. John cleared his throat again, apparently deeply impressed by the contrast the melting blueberry ice cream made on the green-white canvas that was Sherlock’s currently vanilla-with-sugar-sprinkles-flavoured backside, and it hit Sherlock that this situation maybe had its advantages. (This wasn’t even the most humiliating situation he had ever been in, in front of John.)

It was always a delight to see John switch to Doctor mode, even if it was completely-befuddled-as-well-as-slightly-horny-and-guilty-about-the-fact-Doctor mode.

“I am pretty sure you’re having a hypersensitivity reaction,” John told him expertly as soon as he had his voice back. “Similar to an allergy. Your immune system is having issues with some of the ingredients. There’s a local inflammation response in the places where the creme came into contact with sensitive tissue. Cooling the affected areas is the right thing to do, so I guess you should just… um. Keep doing it.”

Sherlock snorted indignantly, easing the second half-melted lolly out of his body. The tingling was finally gone, and even though his butt still felt slightly sore (and cold and slippery), he no longer felt like he was trying to give birth to a grand display of pyrotechnics. What an improvement. “I am glad you approve of my methods, John,” Sherlock managed. “Are you done with your lecture?”

“Um,” said John.

Sherlock tossed the blue lolly aside. It hit the kitchen counter with a weird, squashy noise and slid downwards, leaving a blue ice cream trail behind that looked somewhat depressing. Sherlock scrambled around on the floor, turning to face John properly, and finally sat back on heels, his untied dressing gown hiding nothing at all. The burning had almost stopped. Better. So much better. God bless blueberries. Sherlock was actually a bit curious as to what was going to happen next.

"Bloody hell,” groaned John, letting his gaze wander up and down Sherlock’s body. “Are you serious?”

Sherlock eyed him in a mixture of smugness and complete innocence. “Serious about what?”

“You have an erection.”

Sherlock looked down on himself. “Oh,” he said, his cock twitching slightly in response to being ogled like that. “Yes. I guess I am serious about that.”

John proceeded to shake his head for a stupidly long time. “Christ. I can’t believe… Did what you just did actually turn you on, because that’s just… I can’t-“

“You can,” Sherlock contradicted, making a slight hollow back and then pushing his pelvis forward with an audible exhale. His flushed cock made another interested twitch. John’s ears turned crimson.

Sherlock smirked. “You’re at least semi-erect right now,” he observed, fixating John’s crotch with his gaze. “I suspect the – uuuh – the sounds I was making did the trick. You have always had a – hnnnnng – _peculiar_ reaction to me being vocal while aroused.”

“I am… ah. " John scratched the back of his head helplessly, looking around the kitchen. “God, you made a mess.”

“Inevitable,” Sherlock said, not sure if he was referring to state of John’s penis or the kitchen that looked like it had been ransacked by someone who was hungry for frozen food and very, very wet. Which was frighteningly accurate.

“Well,” said John after a pause. “What are we going to do now?”

“My arse is sufficiently stretched and really slippery, John,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, still eyeing John’s crotch with mild interest, “we should probably have sex.” John just stared. “And look,” Sherlock added somewhat joyfully, “that just made you fully erect.”

“Oh my God.” John buried his face in his hands and took a step back, which irritated Sherlock immensely.

“For God's sakes, John. Most people derive sexual gratification from situations like this. It’s common to get aroused by watching someone insert vaguely phallic items into-“

“Stop talking right now,” John said darkly and unbuckled his belt.

 

Sherlock waited, his lower belly prickling with anticipation as John positioned himself behind him. They were just going to do it like that, apparently. He was completely fine with that. John, behind him, pulled his trousers and pants down and assessed the ideal position. He finally got down on one knee, his pants hanging awkwardly around his ankles, and pulled Sherlock close so his arms were around his waist, his jumper-clad upper body pressed up against Sherlock’s back. John sighed, somewhat defeated, kissed Sherlock’s shoulder and let one hand glide over Sherlock’s belly and chest. He found a nipple and pinched it slightly before kissing a trail down the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Then, finally, he lined himself up and tentatively eased just the head of his cock inside Sherlock's open, waiting body, pressing a soft kiss right behind Sherlock’s ear.

John was apparently going for slow and gentle, despite the fact that they were about to shag between groceries and defrosting body parts on the kitchen floor. Sherlock didn’t have time for such nonsense.

“Oh, for God’s sakes.” Sherlock pushed back, hissing a sharp breath in between his teeth as John slid into him in one smooth motion. John gasped in surprise when he was already fully sheathed. His grip around Sherlock’s waist tightened and his thighs trembled as he adjusted inside. Sherlock's arse was so relaxed and slippery that he had practically _sunk in_. Good. Sherlock determinded that he had underestimated ice cream his entire life.

“More,” Sherlock demanded, and thankfully, John managed to find enough brain capacity to actually comply. He slid out, just to thrust back in with enough force to make Sherlock _whimper_ with pleasure. John pressed his nose into the back of Sherlock’s neck, placing open mouthed kisses between his shoulder blades, and Sherlock pressed back against him, urging him to move with him.

And John did. He set a quick pace, pressing his entire body against Sherlock’s back, snapping his hips and groaning against Sherlock’s flushed, quivering body. Good god, why didn’t they do it like that more often? Sherlock noted that rough fucking against items of furniture was an excellent way to spend an afternoon. He briefly wondered what their position might look like (being humped from behind by a half-clothed John while facing an open fridge did have potential to look ridiculous), but then decided that it didn’t matter, because John was changing the angle and Sherlock’s prostate was making a dramatic entrance, and oh _, that was good._

Sherlock held onto the fridge with one hand and tried to steady himself on the floor with the other. It was extremely difficult to stay in that position on the smooth tile floor. Sherlock involuntarily slid forward with each of John’s thrusts, no matter how hard he tried to stabilize himself, inching closer and closer to the fridge. Sherlock was already starting to worry that John was going to fuck him right through a week’s supply of groceries, when John’s embrace tightened once more and he pulled Sherlock back so he was once more flush against him, before resuming his thrusts. Problem solved.

“My God, Sherlock,” John gasped out, “Christ that’s… that is…”

“Uh, John,” Sherlock panted and turned his head so John could kiss him. The angle was uncomfortable, and a bit awkward, but it didn’t matter because John’s tongue was in his mouth, and John’s lips were moving forcefully, almost bruising, against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock could feel the liquid heat in his abdomen build, his still untouched cock twitched upward, a drop of precome trickling down the head. John was still moving, panting, his thrusts becoming increasingly erratic. “God,” he gasped into Sherlock’s mouth, “I’m going to… soon, I-”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, then finally took himself in hand and started to stroke his cock furiously. He had barely noticed how close he was, he needed… just a little bit more, just- “Harder, John,” he demanded, “harder. _Harder_!”

John did his very best to accomplish that. He snapped his hips with so much force Sherlock knew his entire butt would be flushed and sore afterwards. Well, wasn’t that brilliant. Within seconds, Sherlock was pumping his fist like his life depended on it and John was still shagging him with unabated enthusiasm, and at that point, Sherlock couldn’t have given less of a fuck about what their position looked like. It didn’t even matter that there was a defrosting bisected rat slithering around somewhere and they had probably both caught Coronavirus from the bloody cell culture. John was fucking Sherlock like there was no tomorrow and it was marvellous.

“Is – this – good –?” John gasped out between thrusts, his voice hoarse, his thighs trembling even more violently than before as he approached orgasm. “Do you – like –t… that -?”

Sherlock answered by crying out and ejaculating right into the fridge.

John held him through the aftershocks, breathing heavily. “Fuck me,” Sherlock whispered, barely able to form words. How did that happen? “Keep… Go on.”

John lasted for exactly seven more deep, well-timed thrusts. “Well, fuck,” he said then, sounding oddly composed all of a sudden, and came.

 

John buried his face in Sherlock’s curls as they slowly came down from their respective orgasms. Sherlock could feel John’s heart hammering against his back and caught himself smiling stupidly. He felt that jolt of indescribable affection for the man behind him, as well as a feeling of deep satisfaction that could have made him cry. Orgasms with John always did that. It was annoying.

“You can let go now, John,” Sherlock said finally. He needed to get out of this situation before he confessed his eternal love (which tended to happen from time to time) in front of the fridge or did something equally ridiculous. “My toes are cold and my knees hurt. There’s ice cream all over our genitals. Get up now.”

“Ungh,” John grunted and struggled to right himself. Sherlock winced in spite of himself when John slid out of him.

John cleared his throat and pulled his pants up. “Shower,” he said with an air of finality. “And then dinner. You’re eating something tonight.”

Sherlock didn’t have any clothes to put back on, so he just got up and stood there, feeling strangely exposed. His knees were full of dried ice cream, as was generally every part of him that had touched the floor. And his butt, obviously. It was beginning to itch a bit. Sherlock felt sticky and confused, which was not a pleasant combination. “What’s for dinner?” he asked, because he felt like he needed to contribute to this conversation.

John scratched the back of his head. “Thought I could make broccoli soup.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, gazing back into the fridge, feeling a bit drowsy. “There is semen on the broccoli.”

John bent forward to get a better look, wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist and considered this. “Hm. That’s a shame. We’ll have spaghetti then.”

Sherlock was actually hungry, which took him a little by surprise. This was another thing orgasms did. “Don’t take the vegetable pesto,” he told John, “tastes like shoe polish.”

John knew better than to ask why Sherlock knew what shoe polish tasted like. “We have tomato sauce. Brilliant,” he said instead, gesturing at the fridge that had been open for at least three-quarters of an hour. “And you’re going to pay the bloody electric bill.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _“You may marry him, murder him, or make him shove as much ice cream up his arse as you want.” – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_
> 
>  
> 
> PODFIC by the amazing NotIdiotProof available [[here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4427978)]  
>  
> 
> I’d like to dedicate this work of fiction to the fire hydrant in front of my window that inspired me to keep writing by standing there and being useless.
> 
> Don’t try to use melted ice lollies as lube. This is important. Trust me. It doesn’t work. I made an informative pie chart on that topic, because I got a few confusing messages on tumblr.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Not betaed. English is not my first language. I won’t apologize for English mistakes this time, because I think I have reached a level of insanity where it’s kind of pointless to apologize for anything. I'll write something decent next. (Decent, as in: fluffy gay porn and romance and stuff).
> 
> I love getting comments btw. ♥ Thank you for reading, see you all in hell. ♥
> 
>  
> 
> (I'm so sorry mum don't disown me)


End file.
